Ross Bleckner: My Life In The New York Times

The three heirs of the Whitman family all claimed to love me. But their way of loving me was to keep me hidden. Alexander said New York's financial reporters were too aggressive and that making our relationship public would only put me in the middle of a media frenzy. Nicholas said people in the investment world were vicious gossips and he was afraid I'd become a target, so he never brought me to his partners' gatherings, private clubs, or holiday receptions. Leon said his music career wasn't established yet. Once he had a stage that was truly his own, he would acknowledge me in front of the whole world. I waited four years. This changed when Lillian Grant walked into their lives. Alexander walked her down the red carpet at the Manhattan Art Foundation gala. The next day, every entertainment outlet ran the same headline: "Eldest Whitman Heir Appears to Go Public with New Romance." Nicholas brought her to an investor reception, where his partners called her "the future Mrs. Whitman" right to my face. Leon was the most direct. He played a song at a twenty-thousand-person concert and told the livestream camera, "For the most important person in my life." The jumbotron cut to Lillian's seat. The day after the livestream. Alexander set a folder on the coffee table. "You're twenty-five now. We think it's time you had a life of your own." Nicholas continued, "This man comes from an ordinary background, but he has a stable job. He's been divorced once and has no children. " Leon slid the photo in front of me, smiling with the same easy warmth as always. "We've already met him for you. He's more than a good match." I didn't argue. I just picked up my phone and called the Whitman family attorney. What they didn't know was that the family trust Grandfather had established before his death made one thing perfectly clear. Whoever I chose would receive that twenty-seven percent block of voting shares and become the true power behind the Whitman family.

After I announced my exit from the music industry, the public response was overwhelmingly positive. The only person who voiced his objection was my girlfriend's rumored lover, the up-and-coming songwriter Lucas Zacker. He put on a show of sincerity in front of a crowd of reporters. "It's all a misunderstanding. Matthew is an irreplaceable talent in the music industry. I sincerely hope he returns to the stage." I shut off my phone and turned a blind eye to his public plea. In my past life, one of my songs had been identical to his supposedly original single. As such, netizens accused me of plagiarism, cursing me and wishing death upon my family. Frustrated, I posted the entire creation process online, but it couldn't stand up to the timeline. His new song had been released ten minutes ahead of mine. Just because of the ten-minute difference, netizens sent me photoshopped mourning portraits of myself and even went so far as to come to my house and vandalize it with paint. The relentless cyberbullying went on for years, and it drove me into a deep depression. My parents exhausted their life savings trying to clear my name, only for crazed fans to set our house on fire, causing my parents to burn to death. In the end, when his song won an award, I jumped off a building. But who would have guessed that when I opened my eyes again, I was reborn on the very day the new song was set to release.

In my third year working overseas as a war correspondent, a grenade blast left me wounded and stripped me of my memories. The PTSD that followed was severe enough to keep me in a psychiatric hospital for two years. It wasn't until two months ago that I finally remembered who I was. The day I came home, my best friend and my husband met me at the airport, both of them crying harder than I was. Russell Ellison's eyes were red-rimmed, but his voice was as gentle as ever. "The new place is all set up. Move in for now. I'll come keep you company after work." I went back to our old house instead. The moment I pushed the door open, I saw a wedding photo hanging on the wall. The bride in it wasn't me. It was my best friend. A key turned in the lock outside. The man who was supposed to be buried in work at the office walked in, fingers laced with hers. A child was tucked against his chest, calling him "Daddy" in a small, unsteady voice. I stood frozen, too stunned to breathe. We'd only been apart for two years. So how was their child already three?

My boyfriend said that art held no restrictions, so he used my provocative paintings to enter a competition. Amidst a row of classic ceramic figurines, I became famous. He shot to fame, landing in the top ten of trending searches, while I was humiliated by the entire internet and mocked as a “ceramic influencer.” When I confronted him, he looked at me with disappointment. “They don’t understand art, and neither do you? I thought you would support my work, but I didn’t expect you to stir trouble! You’re so immature!”

Seven years with a photographer, and I don't have a single decent photo of myself. "I only shoot landscapes, not people," my boyfriend, Dwayne Norton, always tells me. He even claims he broke up with his ex because she kept forcing him to take her picture. So, for seven years, I play nice. I never ask and never push. Until today, when I'm scrolling through social media and see a post from my influencer best friend, Aviana Reed. "My personal photographer has been shooting me for seven years. Every single shot is a masterpiece!" In the comments, there's a reply, "It's an honor to shoot my muse." The profile picture is pitch black. The tone is so familiar it leaves me completely numb. He doesn't hate shooting people. He just hates shooting me. Dwayne, since there's no room for me in your lens, then this time, there's no room for you in my world either.

My father, Henry Carlton, is a genius painter. My mother, Candace Mills, is a world-class dancer. Dad says Mom is his muse. To marry her, he gives up a family fortune worth hundreds of millions. Everyone is moved to tears by their beautiful love story. But on the day I am born, Mom is left paralyzed from childbirth and can never dance again. While taking care of me as I cry day and night, Dad does everything he can to help Mom recover. One day, he disappears. All he leaves behind is one letter accusing Mom and me of destroying his inspiration. He says we are the ones to blame. My helpless Mom holds me in her arms as I do nothing but cry. She becomes convinced that if I can become Dad's new muse, he will come back. So, she pushes herself through grueling rehabilitation and devotes everything she has to training me. When I win the silver medal at a national dance championship, Mom finally sees Dad again. Dressed in an impeccable suit, he carries himself with the confidence and air of a wealthy man. He has one arm wrapped around one of the competition judges, and the two of them are openly affectionate with each other. Unable to take the sight of him with another woman, Mom runs out. While chasing after her, I tumble down a flight of stairs. When I finally limp back home, Mom is waiting for me. She grips a stick tightly with a dark look in her eyes. "If you can't become a muse, then what good are you?"